


And Some By Virtue Fall

by LittleDarkling



Category: CSI: NY, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDarkling/pseuds/LittleDarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Not mine. Characters belong to their respective peoples. Entertainment purposes only. No profit made, no infringement intended<br/>Written at the beginning of Season 4 of Supernatural</p>
    </blockquote>





	And Some By Virtue Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Characters belong to their respective peoples. Entertainment purposes only. No profit made, no infringement intended  
> Written at the beginning of Season 4 of Supernatural

Donnie knows at some point this is gonna get real bad. Like a whole lotta bad. Career-ending, family-disowning, move-to-Finland-and-change-his-name bad, but at the moment he can't find it in himself to give a damn about that. Not with Dean's body pressed up against his, Dean's breath hot in his ear and the beat of Dean's heart pounding against his own. Their bodies slide together, filthy and perfect, skin slick with sweat and saliva. It's wrong and part of Donnie knows that. Dean does too. And while giving in to temptation is less an indulgence than a lifestyle to Dean, he gets the feeling Donnie's not one of those guys. It's all kinds of wrong and maybe a bit too 'Romeo and Juilet' and 'Westside Story', but not really because...well, it's not like this is love, right? Cause they still fuck each other up plenty, it's just that this gets in the way sometimes. A cop and a criminal. Who the fuck have thought it? Dean's beautiful. The way women are beautiful. Not exactly, cause it's not like anyone can mistake him for a woman. But he's got these delicate features, sort of rounded and soft. His lips are kind of shaped like the cliché cupid's bow and the bottom is sweet and plump. He's got a bit of rough stubble though, ever-present, because Donnie can't remember any time Dean's face was completely bereft of facial hair. His hair is that kind of wheat honey dark that makes Donnie think of the time him and Sam and Dad had driven through Kansas during a family vacation and that long lonely strip of highway that cut through a massive wheat field. Tall, golden brown stalks rising up on either side of the road, miles as far as his twelve year old eyes could see.

Dean doesn't know Donnie has a sister named Samantha, doesn't know he always calls her 'Sam'. Donnie doesn't know Dean has a brother named Samuel, doesn't know Dean always calls him 'Sam'. They don't talk about who they are beyond Detective and Fugitive. Dean doesn't know that Donnie's Sam is an alcoholic, that and she and Donnie hardly ever talk and Donnie hates himself for it. Donnie doesn't know that Dean's Sam carries the weight of Hell and Damnation on his shoulders or that Dean loves his Sam more than life, more that every breath he draws into his body.

 

*

Before the sun sets Dean will have a bruise fanning out across the right side of his face, a small abrasion on his cheek. Donnie's got a growing bruise on his chest and a cut on his hairline that still showing a black-red line of dried blood.  
Outside, it is dark and the city is coming alive with the night. The sounds of the street slips muffled through the window.  
The gun is off, slapped carelessly onto the table, joined by Dean's gun and blade. They undress quickly. Dean's jacket comes off, slung into a chair. Donnie manages to wriggle out of his leather jacket and suit jacket, leaving both in a puddle on the floor. Boots kicked off, shoes toed off and tripped over. It's a race to see who can strip first, but they both want to watch and that's just not working. Donnie just has his tie off when Dean yanks it away from him and twines it around his hand. Donnie's trembling fingers work at the buttons on his shirt even as Dean pulls him into a fiery whiskey sour kiss. He tastes like whiskey and the salt copper of blood and the sticky sweet bite of peppermint candy. He kisses are like sin themselves, filthy wet, his tongue wrapping around Donnie's and sucking in a way that makes Donnie's cock jump against the confines of his pants. Dean's hands are already on the waistband of his trousers, tugging them open. The belt is yanked nearly from its loops in his haste and Donnie's narrow hips crash against Dean's. They both gasp into each other's mouths, each powerfully aware of the other's hardness, straining and wanting. Dean's got Donnie's pants open in the next breath. One hand is buried tight in Donnie's thick dark brown hair and the other is wrapping around his cock, jerking him off rough, just this side of pain. He's breathing Dean's air and his chest is tight with the need for oxygen. Dean's thumb rubs over the head, gathering slickness onto his fingers. Donnie's chest aches. He tries to pull back but Dean's hands only tighten and he hisses at the fracture of pain that should not feel as good to him as it does. Donnie finally has to place his hands on either side of Dean's head and snap him forcibly back. Dean's teeth rip into his bottom lip, rending flesh before they can part. Donnie tastes blood in his mouth and Dean's got a drop, beautiful candy apple red, glistening at the corner of his pink mouth. Dean tries to pull free, but Donnie's hand goes to the back of his head, fisting in his hair and yanking his head back.  Dean's roots scream and his eyes flutter at the pain. Donnie's dark blue eyes, cold and sin, watch him with malice, a veiled cruelty. It's dangerous and part of the appeal. He's not sure yet whether it's hate that drives them or just that shared pain that they never talk about. Donnie turns him abruptly, pushing him toward the bed and Dean goes. His roots ache from the force of Donnie's hold. He's shoved forward onto the bed, catching himself on his hands. The perfect position. Donnie kicks his feet apart, presses Dean down stop-and-frisk style, bent over, body open to his questing hands. Dean's threadbare jeans are riding low, exposing a curve of hip. He's not even wearing boxers and for a moment--just a moment--Donnie feels the sin of what they're doing acutely. Like fingers in an open wound, digging in. It has to stop, it has to stop, that voice, silenced until now, screams. Mercifully, it passes quickly, when Dean moans softly and lowers his head, submitting. Donnie's hand moves around to work open his jeans. It's quick and easy. The button and zipper give like butter, opening to him. He hears and feels the shudder of relief that passes through Dean as his cock is freed from its confines. He slips his hand inside, feels the scrape of zipper's teeth. His fingers drag through the rough of curls of hair, touching finally the base of Dean's cock. He encircles, forefinger and thumb, strokes the underside and Dean rocks into it.

  
"Fuck..." he murmurs. Dean's already slick and wet and when Donnie draws his hand back; he purposely leaves a smear on Dean's belly. In hindsight, he should have seen it coming, when Dean's body goes slack and easy. Nothing is ever easy between them. His hand is suddenly grabbed at the wrist and Dean is turning, elbow back, pressing into Donnie's kidney with enough force to propel him into the turn. He's slammed back on the bed and before he can move, his arms are being yanked above his head. Dean's weight is pinning him and Dean's hands are working his own tie around his wrists. Donnie grunts in frustration, angry and stunned. He tries to throw Dean off, mind working furiously to recall anything in his training, any of the Marine self-defense moves that Mac taught him that might work. He plants his feet against the bed and tries to get enough leverage to drive a knee into Dean's stomach, his groin, anything to regain the upper hand. But it's too fucking late. Dean yanks the slack toward the headboard, enough force for Donnie to scramble back and the younger man loops the slack around the wrought-iron.

"Hog-tied," Dean says cleverly. Donnie slams his head back into the pillow.

"Bastard!" he hisses, though he's not sure if he's not referring to Dean or himself.

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" Dean asks softly, referring to their first meeting two years ago, when Donnie had slammed him up against a police car and cuffed him. (Dean had escaped from under the not-so-watchful eye of a fairly green patrol officer while he was being sent to Central Booking.) He yanks Donnie's trousers down the length of his long legs. The three stinging scratches he leaves on his hips in his wake, make Donnie bite back a yelp and his hips rise in a stutter. Dean pauses to admire the welts that rise up almost immediately, the tiny bead of blood that rises in one of them. He lowers his head and runs his tongue along it. The taste is the copper of abraded skin and Donnie's blood tastes like saltwater and sugar. Donnie hisses softly, arching up. His fingers scrabble loosely against the iron of the headboard, sweat and the awkward angle making his fingers slip.  
Dean nuzzles into the patch of black pubic curls. Donnie's scent is musky, strong and spicy. The scent of the city that is in his blood. Dean moves lower to drag his tongue down the length of Donnie's cock. It's not as thick as his, but it is longer. A glistening milky droplet of pre-come sits on the head and Dean tongues it away. Donnie's taste is salt and bitter and Dean can recall it sometimes when he is miles away in the dark and alone with only his memory of Hell. He wraps his lips around the head and sucks slowly and Donnie shudders and moans.  
    Too much. Too much. Donnie's mind and heart and body clash over all of it. He shouldn't want this so badly. Dean is a fugitive, a killer, and yet everything the law claims him to be is a contradiction to this man. More than once in their confrontations on the street, Dean has had opportunity to kill him, to hurt him badly, but has not. At the same time, Donnie has had enough opportunity to take Dean down, arrest him, shoot him, but as determined as he, when the final moment comes, he finds himself unable to do so. Their lives would be better without each other. They risk so much at each illicit encounter: disgrace, freedom, life. Why? Dean slides down, taking more of Donnie's cock into his mouth. The detective's lean thighs are tense beneath his hands. His rubs his thumb along the tender crease where thigh meets torso and smiles at the guttural moan it inspires. Donnie's fingers flex, itching to wrap into Dean's hair, to hold him still and thrust into the molten heat of his mouth. The tie tightens around his wrists, cutting into circulation. His fingers already feel cold. Dean suppresses the ache of the gag reflex, taking Donnie all the way, until his nose is buried in the dark curls, the musk scent of his lover overtaking his breath. The detective arches with a wordless cry. Dean's throat ripples around him, hot and slick as an open wound. Donnie bites into his bottom lip until he tastes blood and he is half-embarrassed by the whimper that escapes between his clenched teeth like a keen.

 

*

They're both broken, just in different ways. Maybe that's the attraction. Maybe it's just less lonely that way. It's easier to break apart some more than try to put yourself back together. They both want that now, to break apart into tiny pieces, to dust, until there is nothing left to fix.  
Dean gets this look sometimes, where his eyes get real dark and he seems far away. His fingers dig into Donnie's biceps, until the short, bitten fingernails draw blood. And Donnie knows this look. It's fear. Afraid that Donnie will let go, like he's the only thing keeping Dean from flying apart into tiny fragments. There are scars on Dean's body. Scratches, stab wounds, wounds over wounds. The most perplexing one is the new one on his shoulder, the red handprint as though someone grabbed him with a burning hand. Donnie has scars too. A tangled mess over his stomach, shrapnel scars on his back and a three inch one above his left pectoral. Dean's been around enough shit to know blowback from an explosive when he sees it. And Donnie's scars, they look bad. He wonders how close this staunch detective's heart came to its last beat. They've each got the stories of their lives mapped out on their bodies. Dean has a scar on his lower back, close to his side. It's about eight centimeters long. A jagged piece of upraised skin. The last time Dean was in New York, Donnie slammed him into a steam grate and he had gotten tagged on a broken piece of the metal. Donnie has a mark on his right thigh. It's not quite as visible as Dean's, but it's longer and pale enough to be visible. Dean put Donnie through the lower window of the Manhattan Library during their first meeting. Where the stories of their lives intersect, is marked with scars too.

 

*

Dean slides two fingers inside Donnie. It's saliva alone and Donnie is painfully tight. He arches, trying to pull away from it, but Dean's got him pinned and he can't go anywhere. Donnie never seems to fully accept Dean's dominance when they do this. Even now, tied down and at his mercy, he tries to exert control. Must be a cop thing, Dean thinks idly, as he pushes another finger in. Donnie exhales sharply, and it's not one hundred percent pleasure. When Dean looks up, Donnie's dark hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his face and forehead. His eyes are nearly all pupil and the blue is a bare outline. His upper lip is drawn back from his teeth in a kind of helpless snarl, like a wild dog. Trapped and knowing it, but still putting up the facade of control, or dominance. Dean twists his wrist viciously and Donnie shouts an incoherent curse. His head slams back into the pillow and he arches, back bowed like a wire. Dean draws his fingers out and pushes Donnie’s legs further apart. It takes a moment to snag two condoms from Donnie’s trousers and he rips one open while tossing the other one toward the head of the bed. Donnie’s shuddering heavily, eyes tightly shut. Dean rubs his thumbs along the lines of the older man’s ribs, passing over the faint lines of scars. And he pushes inside. Hard. Deep. Relentless. Merciless. Donnie’s body tightens against the intrusion and his body arches. He doesn’t make a sound; choking on any vocalization that tries to escape. There’s no slow start, no buildup. Dean fucks him roughly, uses his body like a weapon to smash Donnie apart. To leave new marks over the old ones, to remind Donnie of his presence long after he’s gone. Donnie’s cock is trapped between their bodies; the friction not nearly enough to be anything other than a torment.  
     Dean’s fingers curl around his jaw, press against the hard line of bone as his hips move in stuttering rhythm, pushing in deep and hard until it does hurt, until Donnie groans, low and helpless. He can feel the vibration of it against his hand, Donnie’s adam’s apple leaping in his throat as he swallows rapidly. Dean’s hand sinks into the mattress beside the detective’s head, bracing himself as he thrusts harder, faster, lifting Donnie’s narrow hips from the bed with each movement. He presses his face into the hot, damp curve between Donnie’s shoulder and throat, muttering an endless litany of expletives. Donnie’s heart pounds against his own, fierce and alive. Dean can’t hear his own, so he clings to Donnie’s, presses himself as close as he can until the rapid cadence seeps into him. Endless moans, the soft grunts of pleasure and pain rumble up from within the detective lean form, spill from his lips. And Dean can feel that too. He can hear the rush of blood in Donnie’s veins, the motion of life beneath the pale flesh. Orgasm comes in a blinding rush of black and red. His hips stutter mindlessly, driving into Donnie in spastic shudders that make him gasp and whisper something that might be ‘Winchester’. When he comes back to himself, the sound of the detective’s heartbeat is the first thing he hears, rapid and uneven. Donnie’s chest rises and falls with his panting breaths. His cock is hard between them. Dean draws out slowly, but Donnie hisses all the same. It’s a dull pain. They’ve both taken worse.  
     Dean crawls up Donnie's body. He kisses his jaw, runs his tongue along the smooth jaw line. Donnie's chest heaves in a sigh. His skin is hot and slick. His eyes fall closed as Dean rubs his own stubble-rough cheek against his smooth one, rubs his fingers up Donnie's arms, slow and feather-light. He opens his eyes as he feels those fingers slip beneath the tie, working open the knots that have bound him. The angle lets him bury his nose into the hollow of Dean's throat, lick at the line of collarbone and inhale the smoky sweet scent of him, sex and liquor and stale cigarette smoke. His arms ache, pins and needles, as he brings them down. Dean pets him in this awkward caress. Affection isn't something they do. He presses small kisses to the side of Donnie's head, following to his jaw line. Donnie's exceptionally handsome, ridiculously fucking gorgeous. Black Irish. All-American classic good looks. Dean's actually a little envious--not that he'd ever admit that to himself. He can imagine women throwing themselves at Donnie. It's the easy bullshit Irish charm and the lopsided, light-up-the-night grin. He slides his fingers along the patchwork of scars that mar the older man's stomach and abdomen.  
"Do you remember?" he asks. Donnie blinks.  
"No," he lies and forces his sluggish muscles into action. He tackles Dean onto the mattress, pressing him down. His entire body aches. It's bone deep and he can feel the pull inside, the result of not enough prep. But he wouldn't have it any other way. He pins Dean down and takes his mouth in a hard and bruising kiss. He can taste himself still on Dean's lips. Dean's muscles go lax, accept his authority easily. Here and nowhere else, because on the street, Dean respects no authority at all. Donnie grinds against him and relishes the hiss that spills into his mouth. Dean's still sensitive and this must hurt just a little. Good, Donnie thinks.

 

*

Donnie has always been the one to take care of Samantha. Their mother died when she was eight and their father's hours--cop hours--were never really conducive to raising two children. He was always told to watch out for Sam, that she was his responsibility. And he took that job without question and without complaint. She was his little sister and he loved her. He doesn't where exactly he lost his way with Sam. They used to get into some crazy shit when they growing up. There were some wild parties, wild nights and Donnie had done his share of wild and crazy, too. But eventually he grew up, followed in their father's footsteps and joined the NYPD. Sam....well, Sam just never left the party. Their father had written her off after the third college she was expelled from. Suddenly, she was wholly Donnie's responsibility. He couldn't just walk away. End of the day, loser or not, alcoholic or not, black sheep or not, she was still his little sister. This is the nature of New York. It lifts you up or it tears you down. There is no in-between. Donnie was born a New Yorker. Sam was not.  
He became a cop because this is what his father wanted. When Donnie thinks about it, there was never a time when he had other designs. There was never a time he was permitted to have other designs. He is junior and he is his father's son. His name defines him and sometimes, just sometimes, Donnie will look in the mirror know that this identity has never been his own.

Dean has always been the one to take care of Sam. Their mother died when he was six months old and she is barely a memory to Sam. He knows what she looks like from pictures and Dean's descriptions, but he doesn't remember her whole and alive. Their father's hours--hunter's hours--were never really conducive to raising two children. Dean was always told to watch out for Sam, that he was his responsibility and he took that job without question or complaint. He was his little brother and he loved him. Sam left them behind, him and Dad, when he went away to college. He wanted his own life and as much as Dean wanted to resent that, he couldn't. Because this was the life their father wanted. Hunting. Killing evil shit. But Dean was one who raised Sam and it wasn't the life he wanted for his brother. Sam was yanked into the life with a painful abruptness. And this time, there would be no escaping it. Dean is his father's son. He was raised to follow orders. After his father's death the whole of it, every responsibility fell onto him and him alone.  
Detective.  
Fugitive.  
Big Brothers.  
First Sons.

 

*

 

Dean’s back arches, head thrown back, hands scrabbling in sweat damp sheets as Donnie’s cock slides inside him, delicious, radiant pain. He rocks into, shoves his hips up to take him deeper. The detective groans, hips slamming forward to put Dean back in his place. It’s fire. Every place where Donnie’s flushed skin presses against his, burns, scorches, turns to ash. Donnie’s mouth hovers over his, the dark locks of his hair hanging limp, stuck to his forehead. Dean clenches around him to watch those blue eyes flare. He sinks his fingers into Dean’s hair, pulls his head back roughly, holding him to the mattress. His movements are spastic, rough enough to underline the pleasure with pain, to fuse them together as a single entity. His hands dig into Donnie’s forearms, fingers bruising. He bows his head, takes Dean’s lips in a kiss. He marvels how it changes, from stale liquor, blood and mindless lust to adrenaline and self-destruction and loss and something unfamiliar. Dean’s short fingernails dig into his shoulders, break skin, draw blood. He pulls his lips away from Donnie’s to mouth at the curve of his shoulder, the arch of his throat, his chin. His tongue leaves streaks of saliva on Donnie’s skin. There are times when Dean actually thinks he can taste the city on the detective’s skin. Through the faint bitterness of cologne there is steam, asphalt and gunpowder. He sinks his teeth into the juncture between shoulder and neck, leaves a bright pink indentation of his teeth and Donnie makes a sound like a wounded animal before he shoves Dean’s head back into the pillow and takes his mouth in a collision of lips and tongue. His hips move in a stutter-grind and Dean gasps. It's perfect. Just like this, it's perfect. Dean's breath comes in gasping sobs. He's close. So. Fucking. Close. He’s half-hard and coming again so soon, just the thought of it makes him ache. Donnie's breath is a harsh pant in his ear. The older man's back is slick, muscles taut and twisted. He feels Donnie's strength more when they are together like this. Even when they fight, he doesn't feel it as much as when they fuck. Dean never feels more subdued, more dominated when he is here, pressed beneath the bulk of Donnie's body, crying his orgasm into his mouth. The only time Hell and its demon voices are reduced to muted whispers. It's getting so much out of his control. With Donnie, there is no failsafe. For either of them. And that's why Dean needs it so much. It's chaos. Just chaos. Nothing controlled. It's never a decision, just a reaction. Just a desperation born of mutual desire and distrust and feral need.

 

*

Dean knows there is a war coming. In the dark place in his heart, he knows that he cannot save Sam and eventually, when it comes, he will be pitted against the one person he has loved unconditionally, the one person he loves so much that his entire being aches with it. He cannot stop it, but he will try. He thinks of the city, alive with flames, thinks of the sky above blotted black. He imagines standing here at the window of this cheap hotel and watching it all burn. So many people. So many lives. Someday, he knows, everything will burn. When the Seventh Seal is broken, when Sam finally succumbs to these powers. He feels like he should tell Donnie, warn him. But what are the chances that Donnie's going to believe him? Donnie's a hard-wired 'see it-touch it-smell it' kind of guy. To him, all this shit, everything Dean hunts, it's all fairy tales and ghost stories. He sure as Hell isn't going to believe that Lucifer's going to walk the Earth, that Dean's shaggy haired little brother is going to be the downfall of humanity. Besides, even if he did warn him, where would Donnie go? The world is going to burn. Like _Independence Day_ , like _Terminator_. It's the End of the World as They Know It. Not many places to run and hide. Not like Donnie would. He's a cop, through and through. There's so much about him that reminds Dean of Henderickson. All that fierce, obsessive need to get their bad guy at the end of the day. As if it's only way they can go home to their cold, lonely apartments and face themselves in the mirror. Donnie will be like Henderickson; he'll die fighting. Sam. Donnie. The World. Dean was pulled out of Hell to lose everything.

*  
Donnie comes with a muffled groan, pressing deep and hard into Dean. They lie together, panting. Dean’s cock is hard between them, the friction of their sweat-slick bodies a delicious torment. He runs his fingers through the cooling sweat on Donnie’s back, the lines of scarring that read like Braille. Donnie shifts abruptly, muscles moving beneath Dean’s hand. He slides down Dean’s body, leaving a sticky warm trail of saliva in his wake. He bites gently at the soft skin around his navel, smiling against the damp skin at Dean’s soft whine. The younger man’s fingers tangle in his hair, gun-calluses rough against the surface of his scalp. Donnie moves down, his long fingers encircling the base of Dean’s cock as he exhales a hot, moist breath across the flesh.  
“Fuck…” Dean groans hips stuttering. His nails dig in lightly, urging him down. Donnie resists for a moment, raising his head to look at Dean. His eyes are incandescent in the lurid mix of moonlight and streetlight and Dean has brief flash of a wolf. Fierce blue eyes watching from within the darkness of the wood.  
“Do it,” he manages to growl and that word is lost in an animal growl as Donnie’s mouth surrounds head of his arousal. His tongue glides against the crown and then downward, a torment of pleasure. He tightens his grip on Donnie’s dark hair, forces him down as his hips thrust upward. The detective chokes, tries to pull back a little, but he makes no attempt to stop Dean or restrain him. Donnie’s throat is hot and raw around him. It’s over in an embarrassingly short amount of time and there is an element of physical pain. It’s been awhile since Dean’s come twice in one night like this. His hips crash back to the mattress as he pants softly, trying to catch his breath. The restraining hand in Donnie’s hair has resorted to stroking idly. Donnie sucks Dean even after he's come, works him through his orgasm and after it, until Dean is writhing and trying to pull away, because it's too much and he's too sensitive now. Donnie finally, finally lets Dean slip out of his mouth at the whimpered,

"Please...stop..." Dean's voice sounds raw and abused and tattered. Donnie pulls back, licking at his red, swollen lips. He looks exhausted suddenly, barely able to crawl up the bed before collapsing at Dean’s side. Dean reaches out a hand tentatively, runs his fingers along the ridged line of Donnie's spine. He tries to imagine that day, a day when the city will be a husk of burned-out buildings and Donnie won't be here anymore. No more fights, no more...of this. He tries to imagine it and fails. Because the scent of Donnie is so strong. He's alive and whole now. Donnie turns his head and looks at Dean through half-lidded sleepy cold blue eyes. A smile, so small and fragile, a breath would shatter it, but it’s there. Dean shifts forward--he can't help it--and presses a kiss to Donnie's lips. He runs his thumb along the curve of Donnie's high cheekbone. Donnie is heartbreakingly handsome. In the way that Dean is beautiful. Donnie lays his hand gently on Dean's rough stubbly cheek. Dean's light oceanic eyes are about as guileless as he's ever seen them. He brushes his thumb over Dean's full, pouting lips. In a different life, a different place, Dean could have been...he's not sure what Dean could have been, but something other than this.

 

*

 

Dean is in the shower when Donnie wakes. The familiar sounds of traffic that never really ceased in the course of the night and are only amplified in day slither in, muffled through the walls. Donnie dresses, slips into the suit he was wearing last night. The scent of Dean and sex is still heavy on his skin and the taste of Dean and whiskey is sticky and stale in his mouth. It's better if they don't see each other. The light of day does not allow the denials which the night accepts so readily. Dean will be back in New York soon enough. They will fight again and they will fuck. Donnie secures his weapon on his belt, hiding it beneath his leather jacket. Dean's own faded brown leather jacket is slung over a chair where he tossed it last night. Donnie forgoes putting on his tie. He balls it up and stuffs it into his pocket. He can get a shower at home. The shower is just turning off as he slips out into the new morning.

 

End


End file.
